A Boundless Moment
by CanIsay
Summary: Mycroft knows when to leave the British Government behind and become a big brother.


The day is slow, pleasantly warm, and even Mycroft was considering taking a walk before his mobile buzzed at the edge of his desk. His thumb dragged across the screen as though the motion would erase the words. The text remained once his finger fell from the screen. No one was near enough - and hardly perceptive enough - to see him momentarily tense. Still, he berates himself for showing weakness- no matter how fleeting. With a sigh that he wouldn't use for the last time, Mycroft excuses himself from his office because running the government doesn't excuse him from taking care of his little brother- it never will.

Anthea –_MargoEveHeste_r- moves to follow but a simple gesture keeps her still. "No," he says with a patience she long ago learned only applies to Sherlock, "No, I believe I will see to this myself."

He's not surprised to see her eyes narrow in protest. Though she is an expert at manipulating emotions and personas, Anthea is uncharacteristically real when the matter regards Sherlock.

(_I lost a sister, sir_- said the night of Sherlock's overdose.

_Yes, you did_, he said with a nod of his head, _that will be all, thank you_.)

No, it doesn't need saying; she reads it in his shoulders, in the stride of his step. There is a reason she has worked under him for six years- she is the best; he wouldn't have anything less. Anthea sucks her cheeks in frustration but turns towards her laptop. "I'll have them ready the car, sir," she says.

"Good, thank you." He stares at his mobile for a few seconds more before leaving his office.

A simple – _get him_- would be enough to have a car and two capable babysitters driving down to the Yard before Mycroft could sit back down at his desk. Mycroft, however, knows when to leave the British Government behind and become a big brother.

-  
Mycroft was seven the first time he held Sherlock in his arms. He didn't understand what Sherlock (what he) was to become, but he remembers wishing (eyes shut-_please_-_please_) that Sherlock would be like him-that he would no longer be alone. He once heard someone say_, if you want something badly enough _and oh, how he wanted someone to understand.

But Mummy (never lied) said, sometimes thing just don't work out, and their father was always (overworked, under caffeinated) away. Mycroft stopped making wishes not long after, which is just as well, because he never really got what he wanted.

-  
Mycroft cracks the window and resists the urge to rub his eyes. London - _his city_- moves around him, but he can't see any of the movement- the life. Instead, he sinks into the depths of his mind, which splits down three paths at once. The first path is Sherlock's health. Lestrade had texted, not called, and any hospital would have contacted him immediately if something should have happened. Safe then - possibly high or coming down, but it's not something Mycroft isn't equipped to deal with. His lips pinch -but he had been careful. His men thoroughly checked Sherlock's flat, not even unopened flour went unchecked. Sherlock may be smart, but Mycroft is smarter, and he had labeled the flat safe personally.

Perhaps he had grown too lax the past few months. A year had passed since the overdose and Sherlock's eyes were always clear. Trivial; surveillance would be increased as would home visits. It would only take two trips to install security cameras, less, if he rented another flat and installed them before Sherlock moved in. He leans his head against the leather – there would be more phone calls to make in the morning.

The second path is clean up. He runs through a database of people who owe him favors, or people he has information on that is better kept out of the public's attention. Several faces that can make this little matter disappear flash in his mind until he narrows in on one: Maxwell Brighton- young, impressionable, and a bit too eager to please his superiors. Yes, that would do quite nicely.

The final track is nothing but frustrating and highly irrelevant memories of his first fight with Sherlock over the improper use of a magnifying glass, and the final fight over when Sherlock crossed the final line and humiliated Mycroft's potential employer. He thinks about the day (March 22nd), that Mycroft realised Sherlock was using his money to buy cocaine, and multiple ways which he could have handled the situations differently - add a different variable and the equation can have a completely different answer. Needless thoughts because there simply isn't enough data to suggest things would have worked out better had Mycroft done things differently seeing as Sherlock was such a self-destructive prat.

-  
When Sherlock was five, he got stung by a bee. Mycroft skipped the lesson on bees and stingers and let Sherlock cling to his jumper and cry. It was insignificant at the moment, but Mycroft realises that he shouldn't have let Sherlock go; he would be chasing after him soon enough.

-  
Mycroft used to read Sherlock stories that his mother once read to him. The stories had happy endings, and taught important lessons about morals and life. Every story had a beginning and a middle and an end, and even if there was struggle, everyone was happy in the end. Mycroft often took comfort in the structure. He used to take comfort in the happily ever after but has learned that not every story ends with one of those - especially if you have the surname Holmes. Being at the Yard instead of at his office, calling Lestrade instead of writing a report to the Chilean ambassador, is a stark reminder of that fact.

Mycroft takes out his mobile and makes a single sentenced call: _I__'m waiting_, said much in the same way he would have answered if asked if he wanted tea. Mycroft leans his head to the left but the motion does little to alleviate the tension in his neck. He keeps his umbrella at his side and knows his knuckles are white as they clutch at the handle. Only one person has the ability to bring him to such a state and Mycroft has the pleasure to call that person his little brother.

A weaker man would pine for simpler days, but Mycroft is not a weak man.

-  
"I want everyone to leave," Sherlock yelled from the top of the stairs. As far as birthday went, it wasn't one of his worst.

Their mother, assuming her eight-year-old son was having _another _temper tantrum, rushed to restrain Sherlock, which meant embracing him in a suffocating hug until he stopped fidgeting. This was two years before she learned to roll her eyes and go out back to smoke a cigarette that wasn't as secretive as she thought. Three year before she blew smoke out the window as her sons watched over breakfast.

"But they're your friends, Sherlock. They came just to see you," she said, brushing his hair out of his eyes. Mummy had always been strong, but she could be delicate, too. She did things no else in the family would do– held them and praised them, she would look her neighbors straight in the eyes –_ there is nothing wrong with my son_. How could they not lover her for it.

Mycroft gently pulled mummy away from Sherlock. "I think it's time for our guests to leave."

She gave Sherlock a sad smile, "is that what you want?" With a nod from his head, Sherlock sent her downstairs.

"I don't like them," Sherlock said when their mother was apologetically seeing the guests out.

"Well, there isn't much to like," Mycroft replied, putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "You don't need them, Sherlock. You never will."

Mycroft was fifteen, and arrogant enough to think he knew better than his parents, which, when it came to Sherlock, he did. He remains an expert, well versed and practiced on the matter. He never voiced it out loud, but the day Sherlock was placed in his arms, he made a promise to protect him. Mycroft accepts the weight of his decision and stands by it.

-  
As it turns out, there is one situation Mycroft didn't prepare for; a clear eyed- sober- Sherlock walks out of the Yard, followed casually by the man- Lestrade. Sherlock stuffs his hands in his pockets as he approaches, "Ah, Mycroft. Good, it's a difficult hour to call a taxi."

Lestrade shrugs one of his shoulders. "Play nice," he says, but the words disappear into the tension.

"Detective Inspector," Mycroft says with more familiarity than he would prefer. Nonetheless, he recognises this man's efforts and replies with something close to fondness. "Pleasure," he says, and while his words are directed at Lestrade, his eyes are scanning Sherlock.

"Something like that," Lestrade says with an easy smile. "He's all yours."

Mycroft feels his shoulders tense. He is not a man accustomed to being left in the dark. "And the charges?"

"Just an angry DI who Sherlock promised never to bother again," there is laughter in his voice.

"My mistake," Sherlock snaps, "I thought Detective Inspector Clemmons was interested in actually solving his cases." He tries to look angry but doesn't seem to have the energy to pull off the scowl.

"Anyway, I thought a nice conversation with his brother would suffice as punishment," Lestrade says, placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulder- another testament to the amount of time they have dealt with this man. "I figure it will save us both some paperwork."

A silence falls over them as they turn their attention to the younger man. Lestrade clears his throat, "fifteen minutes then. Tomorrow," he says with a forced authority. "I'm kicking you out after that."

Sherlock glares at him. This time, he has the energy to pull off a scowl. "Don't insult me, Lestrade. I'll hardly need fifteen minutes. Unlike the bumbling crew you call detectives, I know what clues are important."

Lestrade makes it a point to ignore Sherlock, after all, you don't walk through hell with the Holmes brothers without picking up a few tricks. Instead, he returns his attention to Mycroft. The Detectives eyes are soft. Still, they have the same edge they did the night that he said: _Hell, he can stay with me_, and changed the course of his own life with a single sentence. "Keeping my word," he says with a slight shrug of his shoulders, "like he kept his. He's clean; one year sober. Good job, you did something right."

Mycroft raises his eyebrow in a small thank you. He knows the victory is not all his. "He was bound to go tired of throwing his life away," Mycroft says, because he has boundaries and he can't shed them now. "It was just a matter of waiting him out, it always has been."

Lestrade lets out a small laugh that Mycroft purposely does not analyze. He looks back at the building, "Suppose that it's then," he says, "have fun with him." He leaves the brothers in silence.

They stand together until a black car pulls up to the curb.

"Dinner?" Mycroft asks as he enters the car.

He's not surprised when he feels the leather shift to support Sherlock's weight. "If we must."

This is not a celebration.

-  
To anyone else, the silence would be oppressive, but the Holmes brothers are used to the weight of silent secrets and of words meant but unable to be said aloud. Being a Holmes didn't come with memories of holidays or family trips to the sea. It came with _this_ and the boys carry it well.

"Do try to be more careful, Sherlock," Mycroft says in a way that resembles the tense way his father used to always address the youngest Holmes during dinner: at least twenty minutes-a very short amount of time to spend with your family, who loves you.

Sherlock still has defiance written in his eyes but it's softened because he's talking to Mycroft and the line between posturing and distrust is blurred. "I'm perfectly fit to make my own choices."

Then you can suffer the consequences - the words never leave his mouth, they never will. He simply emits a sigh because honesty, there are times when he is wearied by their bickering. He can deal with the mounting paperwork on his desk and the weight of the public's safety securely on his shoulders, but somehow, he can't have a decent conversation with his brother.

They shift in their seats, making sure to keep a measured distance between them. (But Mycroft leans just a little to the left and Sherlock's foot inches past the invisible barrier). The air around them is thick with words that stick in the back of their throats – _I'm not sure how this happened_. But it did happen and they both have the gnawing feeling that maybe, this can't be fixed, at least not right now.

-  
Life at the Holmes residence made little sense, so Mycroft stopped trying to make sense of it. Instead, Mycroft found ways of controlling it. When he wasn't studying for exams, he was documenting the land surveying their home, and making sure Sherlock arrived to his appointments on time. He took comfort in the patterns.

Sherlock was an escapist too, but he didn't like any of those things (he tried to emulate Mycroft by buying maps at local shops, but Mycroft never once saw him using any of the charts or protractors he bought him.) He was more likely to stare at the ceiling for hours than play outdoors. He spent hours arranging play dough into forms of helium and carbon and iron molecules. Sometimes, he would recite facts about different molecules, even if there was no one in the room.

Mycroft eventually escaped into a world of official titles and classified documents while Sherlock escaped into drugs. No one was particularly surprised.

-  
This wasn't a celebration and both Holmes brothers wondered why they bothered staying. Sherlock picked and Mycroft didn't hide his scowl when the waiter took away an entire plate of food. He would win that battle too, just not today.

They only linger for a moment before Sherlock heads towards the door. Mycroft doesn't show his surprise when Sherlock waits for him near the exit.

"Wasn't the worst restaurant you could have chosen." Sherlock says by way of departure. He doesn't take five steps before he turns around.

"No, indeed it wasn't" Mycroft says as he takes out a cigarette and extends it towards his brother. It's not a peace offering or a thank you for staying clean. For once, there is no attachment to his offer, no meaning beyond sharing a cigarette with his brother. Sherlock's favorite and Mycroft's too before he quit- even though his habit only last two months.

Sherlock keeps his eyes focused on the cigarette like it's a puzzle. Mycroft feels him analyzing the color of the paper, the pattern of the tobacco, the way Mycroft grips the cigarette-the pressure. He observes every detail, just like Mycroft taught him to. This time, however, he's unable to come to conclusion because Mycroft doesn't want him to. When Sherlock gives up trying to make sense of the gesture, he turns his piercing gaze towards Mycroft.

"We stole our first cigarette together," Mycroft says, taking out his lighter.

"It wasn't your first." Sherlock's shoulders drop as he accepts the cigarette.

Mycroft's mouth twitches, but it's too quick to be a smile. "No, it wasn't." He doesn't fail to notice Sherlock pause when he takes out a cigarette for himself.

While Sherlock deletes, Mycroft stores and preservers. He catalogs everything and arranges every piece of data until it's organized and ready to use. One of his largest sections is reserved for Sherlock. He remembers every time Sherlock pressed against him as they passed their neighbors German Shepherd, every time Sherlock called his mobile only to hang up without saying a word.

Just because Sherlock deletes or buries these bits of information doesn't mean they are not true, just because he doesn't remember on insisting that he pick out the Christmas tree, doesn't mean it didn't happen. And maybe, just because Sherlock pretends to delete, he holds on because sometimes, sentiment won't let you go.

And so, when Mycroft gets the call or the text, he pulls at his tie and goes to his brother because while he may not recognize the man, he remembers the boy who needed help down from the tree, the one who flooded the kitchen, the boy who would only try new food if Mycroft tried it first. A woman once told him that he protects Sherlock in hopes of saving the boy. Catch him enough times and he's bound to grow bored of falling. She is probably double –_triplequadruple_- checking her Blackberry for a missed call from Mycroft.

They haven't been together this long since before the hospital. They both know the date but will decline from alluding to it. Partly because it's a useless observation, partly because the conversation will require a certain amount of self-reflection they are not prepared to deal with.

Mycroft stands next to the wall, making sure not to lean on it. Even away from his office, it's difficult to let go completely; such is the price when the lines between work and personal life dissolve into one another. There is no taking a break from running the country, just as there is no break from being an older brother. He bears the marks in the shadows under his eyes, in the sigh that comes from deep from within his bones. He understood the sacrifice long before he accepted his roles.

"I don't have to tell you that I will still be checking up on your flat," Mycroft say. If Sherlock concentrated, he might be able to pick up a trace of regret, but even then, he wouldn't be able to be sure.

Sherlock flicks the ash away from his cigarette. "And yet you are," he responds lazily. He raises an eyebrow, "The advantage is mine, then." It's not a real challenge.

"No," Mycroft responds in kind, "it never is." It's meant to be light but there is an edge that has defined their relationship for years.

Sherlock gives him a ghost of a smile. He almost looks pensive but Mycroft knows better to think that Sherlock is lamenting his mistakes. "I need my mind clear for work," he says, eventually.

"Ah," Mycroft says with a nod. "Yes, This Detective Inspector Lestrade is having you play at detective. How very nice."

The alternative to the statement would be to say that he is thankful that Sherlock has something to occupy his time. He lets the statement go and he's sure they are both better for it. Mycroft straightens his shoulders as he walks to the car. He can feel himself slipping back into his the role of the British government. He takes the moments between the transitions to take a real look at Sherlock. His hair is growing out, falling just above his eyes- mummy's favorite length. Shoulders dropped, hands still. He takes the openness, the allowance of being observed as an apology.

Sherlock pushes himself off the wall in a fluid motion. "Mycroft," he says as he drops his cigarette on the ground.

Mycroft simply nods before watching Sherlock walk down the street. Tomorrow, he will see to it that Sherlock begins looking for a new flat, and if he refuses, he will come home to see that everything has been moved for him.

Mycroft reclines in the seat of the car and resumes his role of the British Government.

* * *

**Author's Note- **Man, I can't get enough of this relationship. Hopefully, there are people out there as obsessed with these brothers as I am. As long as there are, I will keep of writing stories about them! Reviews are love and a confirmation that maybe, I should keep on writing ;)

*The title comes from the Robert Frost poem.


End file.
